


The Drums of Durmstrang

by Abby_Ebon



Series: It's Not A Rabbit Hat [50]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:17:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_Ebon/pseuds/Abby_Ebon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dui HbdH iuD:Prompt: Marge thought the Potter boy, her nephew-in-law needed<br/>discipline. When Vernon, Petunia and Diddikins all die in a car accident,<br/>where better to send her 15 - 17 year old nephew than a military boarding<br/>school?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Drums of Durmstrang

**Author's Note:**

> This left me scratching my head, as there wasn't a military boarding school mentioned by name in the request, and no way to contact Dui, either, so here you are – it's probably only vaguely what was wanted, sorry, sorry - this is mostly Marge's POV as I tend to think that like JK Rowling's mishap with the bulldog, Marge is misunderstood more than mean.

"We…must make the best of this." Marge Dursley tells her nephew over the phone. The boy is very quiet, and Marge can only guess at what unpleasant things he is thinking about her. The boy doesn't know it, but he – as they say – wares his heart on his sleeve; she could without much study read his every thought by his face.

Most of them are unpleasant indeed. The boy isn't Dursley blood, but he was Petunia's and Marge loved her like a sister, and loved Dudley like the son Marge knows she will never have. So she sees it as her duty to do the best she can for the boy, for their sake.

"Yes, Aunt Marge." She knows that he may be in shock, they had all been coming to pick up Harry at King's Cross when it had happened, a otherwise happy homecoming becoming something tragic and cut short; he will likely be blaming himself. A stupid thing, but one the boy won't see past in his guilt. He's like that.

"I will see you soon Harry." Marge cuts the call short, for she doesn't like to use the phone and drive at the same time, and the sooner she gets there, the better off the boy may be. She finds him, sitting on his truck, cuddling with a white owl. Marge eyes the owl, and wonders why Vernon never told her the boy liked _birds_ , a boy who makes a pet out of a bird will rarely like _dogs_. No wonder he and Ripper never saw eye to eye. The boy probably smelt of bird.

"What's her name than, Harry?" Marge asks, trying to be kind. He looks up at her through his messy hair, she'd told Petunia once that he ought to have it cut – the boy had lovely eyes, lively and intelligent, but wary, such eyes ought to be showed off, not covered up. Nothing ever came of it, so Marge never brought it up again.

"Hedwig, Aunt Marge." Harry was so unlike the rest of the family, the dark haired boy in a household of blonds, well, that was one difference, but he seemed not to understand what a family was. What it meant. Perhaps it was to be blamed on his mother and father, for dying so tragically, he had been a year old or so, young enough to have a impression, but not old enough to truly remember. Marge had noticed the lack of…closeness, it was Harry against Vernon and Petunia and Dudley, and how Petunia raised the boys, that was her business. Marge didn't dare think she could have done it better, she didn't want children for a good reason – too many were unwanted in the world, and if something should happen to her – her child would be just one more. Just like with Harry now.

"A fine specimen of _bubo scandiacus_ , if I'm not correct…?" She thinks it better, to talk of small things, than to tackle the bigger issue. But Harry looks at her blankly and only nods his head; he doesn't know what to make of her attempts. Hedwig looks up at her, yellow eyed and wary. She seems to understand that Marge is grieving, and in her own way trying to reach out to Harry, who has just lost the last of his family. He hasn't, Marge has decided – he has her, blood or not blood kin – if he'll have her.

"Harry, come along with me now – do you have things you'd like to pick up?" harry looks to Hedwig and shakes his head. Marge has never seen where Harry slept as a child, nor now, and only now does she think that strange when she thinks back on it and remembers only Dudley's room.

She takes him for his word; she'll send movers in the morning to take the stuff to her so she can sort through it all – she knows the deed to the house goes to her now. She doesn't need the house – and Harry doesn't either – so she'll sell it and hopefully have a buyer before school starts.

Marge waves a hand for him to rise up and stand, and when he does she helps him to push his trunk of school things to the car. It fits snugly in the car trunk, and when Ripper sees Hedwig he starts yapping about her. Marge clicks her tongue, reminding Ripper he knows better than to bark at birds.

"How was St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys?" Marge asks, amused in spite of her words. She knows there is no such school, had known it the moment Vernon had mentioned it when the boy was thirteen. Marge knows very well how to find out information – and use a computer, even if Vernon did not seem to realize it.

"I…I wouldn't know, Aunt Marge, I've never gone there." Harry, sitting in the passenger seat, looks to the window, watching the world go on without his family in it. Marge tries not to dwell on that, so must push the boy to do the same. It would do neither of them any good to fall into a depression.

"Is that so? Where do you go Harry?" Harry's mouth works, opening and closing, but he is speechless, as if he doesn't know if he should, Vernon likely would not want him to, if Marge knows her little brother well. Petunia had had her secrets – and in all the world, she'd told only Vernon about her sister, and Harry.

"It's a magical school, isn't it? Probably, oh, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…hmm?" Marge had known, not because of Vernon, but because what properly raised squib son and daughter of so-called purebloods would not remember being inflated, memory was a tricky thing – and memory modifiers could be tricked.

"Yes, Aunt Marge, how…how did you know?" Harry was all wide green eyes and wild black Potter hair.

"Have you not heard of squibs? Vernon and I were raised to be pureblood witches and wizards, rich, wealthy, proud – it's why I was so disgusted with Petunia's sister, marrying into a wealthy family, just the same, just as otherwise worthless. If you have wealth Harry, you should not just live off it, you should do something worthy with it. Vernon and I, our names were burned off our family tree, we took new ones…starting over, as muggles, with nothing…practically orphans, was a hard lesson to learn." Marge doesn't know if Vernon ever told Petunia or their boy this, but it's clear they never told Harry. She feels at once cold at that, she remembers all the little otherwise worthless gifts she gave him – worthless, perhaps, but with hidden meaning – meaning he wouldn't know how to figure out because he didn't know they were messages.

"I…I never knew, Aunt Marge." She sees him sneaking glances at her, shy and unsure, as if her words might be a trick. It bothers her, that Harry doesn't say anything to challenge her, to stand up for himself. Marge thinks of Vernon, and Dudley, and how big they are compared to Harry and wonders if what she thought was harmless family hassling was bullying. It left her cold.

"Well, how would you if no one ever told you? Tell me about Hogwarts?" Harry does, focusing on Hogwarts because it's supposed to be safe, and a home away from home. Marge keeps her eyes on the road, making all the correct little noises that prod along a conversation without ever saying anything. As they travel along, her grip on the steering wheel gets tighter and tighter, until she sees her white knuckles and forces herself to swallow down her rage at wizards ands witches who are supposed to be wise and powerful – and are making Harry Potter into no more than a martyr. She says not a word.

"Where would you have gone to school, if you had been a witch?" Harry asks, and Marge Dursley meets his eyes. She wants him to be safe and strong, and it's clear that he can't be either at Hogwarts – so she'll save him, even if it makes him hate her. She hopes, one day, that he'll understand.

"The Durmstrang Institute, and now that you'll be living under my roof you'll go there as well, there is –after all - no sense in sending you so far away every year." Harry's hands shake as he pets Hedwig, but he doesn't meet her eyes again – or say a word until she shows him to his rooms; a bathroom, a sitting room, a bedroom, an empty closet room that she intends to fill with clothes for him. He says only a small _thank you_ , and she leaves him to get settled in hoping that his trunk indeed has everything he needs for now.

Marge goes first to the kitchen, where Cannelle Dóttir looks up with flour on her face. Marge tries very hard not to smile or giggle, keeping her lips in a firm line while Cannelle raises a brow and waits to hear what Marge has to say.

"My dear, how's supper coming along?" Marge leans in the doorway, eyeing the kitchen, its Cannelle's domain and she's welcome the charge of it. If left to her own cooking, Marge knows very well she would rather starve.

"Fine, fine, how's the poor boy?" Marge doesn't bother to hide anything from Cannelle, and it shows. Cannelle doesn't gossip, but she knows just about everything that happens to anyone.

"In need of a good supper, do you recall where I put those owl-papers?" Marge asks of her Elle, because her memory is better than any sorting system. It used to be anyone who did calculations of complicated math figures from memory was called a computer; now it was a machine, but Elle's memory was better than anything when it came to all the little bits and pieces people didn't pay enough mind to.

"In your study Marge, probably with the letters Vernon sends." Marge nods thoughtfully and goes on her way, and isn't surprised at all when Elle is right about where she put the things. She gets the owl post, and so knows just what it means that Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lived and why the Dark Lord is after him. She just never thought of Vernon's Harry as _that_ Harry. It does strangely fit though.

_Minister Cornelius Fudge,_

_I have in my keeping Harry Potter, my ward after the event of the death of Petunia Dursley, her husband Vernon – my brother – and my nephew and their son, Dudley due to a recent automobile wreck._

_I am shocked and appalled at the low standards at Hogwarts' security and negligent of duty toward the safety of students such as Harry Potter. I hold the staff personally accountable for the events of the rising of the Dark Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle, former student and graduate of Howarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

_He will not be enrolled in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this coming term or ever again while I live,_

_Sincerely,_

_Sgt. Marjorie Dursley_

Marge smiles grimly, wondering who might remember her as the inflated Aunt. No matter, she takes up pen and paper to Drumstrang Institute.

_Head of Drumstrang Institute_

_Due to the dire events of the Triwizard Tournament, and the treatment of Harry Potter by Hogwarts staff and the Ministry of Magic afterwards, I have taken him out of Howarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He has recently lost his Aunt Petunia, his Uncle Vernon and cousin, Dudley in a wreck due to a reckless driver. I feel a change of surroundings is best for him._

_I ask if it is possible for Harry Potter to be enrolled into Drumstrang Institute this year._

_My thanks,_

_Sgt. Marjorie Dursley_

It was done, all the t's crossed and i's dotted. Marge wonders if Harry ever told Vernon or Petunia what happened to him at Hogwarts – and knows he didn't - a fault on both their parts.

Marge smiles at the letters, feeling a light of accomplishment, and wonders what Colonel Fubster will make of all this. Marge goes to see Harry, as it's only right he sees what she does for his sake – she knocks on the door, and when it opens, Harry blinks up at her, as scruffy and messy as always.

"Here you are Harry, send these off with Hedwig if you would? Feel free to take a look, if you want." Harry looks down and reads the letters, one after another, still strangely pale but ties them to Hedwig and tells her where she is to go. He says not a word to her. It's frustratingly annoying, when Marge feels she's going out of her way to help, as if he expects it.

"Well, haven't you anything to say?" Marge prods, and Harry looks to her – soon he'll be looking down instead of up, but for now he still has to look upward rather than at.

"I…I never knew how you felt about me, how they did, it's just always seemed I was a bother and a burden they didn't want." His tone dares her to change his mind. Marge frowns down at Ripper who is always at her heels, unnoticed and protective; it took him ages to teach her not to trip on him. Family can be like that too.

"Harry, your sensitive, you've been that way since you were a boy, something's your so obvious about, like Dudley. You remember when you were five and it was his birthday? A little boy shouldn't be outdone by anyone on his birthday, of all days." Marge sighed, it didn't make it right, what she had done – but both Harry and she had hit it off wrong at that first meeting. Harry had dreaded seeing her ever since. He'd never understood her, and she hadn't gotten to know him enough to think well of him.

"The Christmas presents of a box of dog biscuits, I thought Petunia and Vernon would let me give you a bulldog pup, I had one picked out and trained – but they didn't let me see you again until he was grown, and spoiled. Ripper was supposed to be yours, you know." Harry looks down at the full grown dog, and frowns, looking the first time as if he's really thinking about Ripper as a pet and not as a menace.

"But you stepped on him and ran away from him when he chased you, I thought you'd wise up and stop running when he just ran around and around, but you went up that tree and wouldn't come down. He's never bitten you, but, you were a boy, I don't blame you for being afraid of a bulldog you've never met - though, boy's need training, like pups. You just weren't taught right from wrong, Vernon and Petunia may have tried, may have meant well, but they loved the idea of each other and a family more than the reality." It's a sad truth, and Marge won't say more than that about the dead until they are buried, but it's a start to heal a rift between Harry and her.

"So you see, you didn't fit, and you didn't want to fit either. You're a wizard, and they were not – I am not, but your one of mine, blood or not, so long as you live under my roof – and I won't have you living on the streets. So, I will do what is best for you, no matter if you like me – or it – or not. I hope you understand, Harry." Marge thought the boy had gained back some of his color, and he met her eyes as he spoke.

"I do, Aunt Marge. I'll try my best, if you do." Marge smiled, for it was as good as a start as she could have asked - a sliver of trust that could grow to be a bridge between them.

"Very good, Harry." Cannelle's dinner bell chimes and Ripper leads the way to the kitchen with a joyful bark. Harry flinched, but she thought he might in time learn the meanings behind a bulldog's bark, for her dogs did not bite.

"Come along, supper's done I think." Marge found she was secretly pleased when Harry walked beside her, keeping a smooth pace with her stride.

Cannelle had set up a proper feast on the table, neither knowing what the boy might like or not, so there was a little of everything –Harry watched as Marge made up her plate and went outside with tea and coffee; Cannelle had already set out the picket blanket. The dogs were out and about and she set aside her tea for the dogs, having never cared for Britons most famed drink. It wasn't very British of her, but her dogs were very British so she thought it rounded out in the end.

"What kind of magical sports do you like, Harry?" Elle asked, as he sat between her and his aunt.

"I, uh, play Quidditch as Seeker, I've played since First Year, and the youngest Gryffindor in a century Professor McGonagall said." Harry should be proud of that, and Marge knows he is or he wouldn't have mentioned it – but he lacks confidence, it sounds to her ear as if he's asking for an approval. Drumstrang will give him confidence, instead of simply reacting to danger; he'll act with some knowledge behind him instead of gut instinct. He's got good instincts, but those aren't enough to keep him alive with what's coming with the rebirth of the Dark Lord.

Marge has seen war, acted and reacted in it - and she knows the difference.

"As you were in the Triwizard Tournament, I'm not surprised, tell me, did you get to know their Champion Viktor Krum? He's Seeker for the Bulgarian National Quidditch team, if I recall correctly?" Elle nudges Harry with her shoulder, smiling gently as he stares at her in surprise. Marge may not have cared much what had happened in the world outside muggles, but Elle was a witch who had exiled herself – for reasons Marge never asked after.

"Yeah, I know him; he danced with my friend Hermione, and really got Ron steaming. It was funny." It's the first time Marge sees Harry smile, warm with memory, and she thinks she'd like to see it more often. She thinks she'll invite Harry's friends –and the Krum boy to her house, perhaps for the day – just so Harry knows he's not being isolated or stolen away from them. It's danger she wants to keep him from, not friends.

If his smile is any indication, he'll settle in and fit, and thank her in the end.


End file.
